The Last Good Man

North Africa

Private military companies exist around the world. Some are small, some immense. Many provide only support and training services. Others include armed security. And some are mercenaries in the classic sense: soldiers for hire, willing to work in offensive military operations that might include frontline combat or the overthrow of vulnerable governments.

It’s a secretive world. Even the white-hat companies are publicity-shy and cautious of new contacts.

True has worked four years in the industry. She’s done a lot of networking, developed alliances, but only among white-hat companies that are signatories in good standing to the Military Company Code of Conduct. She is sure, though, that in the volatile regions of North Africa and the Middle East, even those local companies with sterling reputations will have connections reaching into the darker side of the industry. She needs to tap those connections. It’s the only way she’ll ever find Shaw Walker.

She targets a company she’s worked with before, one based in Rabat, Morocco, and run by a middle-aged Egyptian expatriate known as Dove Barhoum. She sets up a clean email account for the purpose.

She doesn’t want to mislead, so when she contacts Dove, she is careful to say that she is not representing Requisite Operations Inc. and that she is not seeking services. To her surprise, the approach piques his interest. Sixty minutes after clearing customs in Rabat, she is sitting across a desk from him, in a windowless room within a large training complex on the city’s edge.

He is a man of stern posture, with dark eyes, a neat beard, and a weathered, sun-blackened visage. His wavy hair is streaked with gray. “We have all heard of Requisite Operations’ recent job in the TEZ,” he says. “And of the troubles that followed—at Eden Transit, and at your company headquarters in America. There has been talk that a retaliatory strike is sure to follow. Yet you are here on your own?”

True’s response is blunt, and honest. “I’m here ahead of the war,” she says. “I can’t tell you what form it’s going to take or when it’s going to happen—because I don’t know. But I don’t deny it’s coming. Too many lines have been crossed. But I’m not here to reconnoiter, or to cultivate allies. Like I said in my email, I’m on personal business. All I’m looking for is an introduction.”

“You understand that my company abides by the code of conduct?”

“Yes, of course. I would not imply otherwise. But while you and I operate by that code, we can’t afford to ignore those who don’t. I don’t doubt that you sit at the nexus of an intelligence operation that is aware of every other PMC in this region, legitimate or not. How could you successfully serve your clients otherwise? I am not asking to access that operation. All I’m looking for is an introduction, or a referral. Someone able and willing to get a message to Jon Helm.”

“Jon Helm,” Dove repeats, slow and thoughtful.

“Do you know him?” True asks.

Dove shrugs. He tugs at his beard. He asks, “You are not seeking a negotiated peace?”

True’s thoughts go to Renata. “It’s gone too far for that.”

“So you wish to speak with this Jon Helm.”

“Yes. About something that happened a long time ago. He’ll know what I mean.”

He reverses her earlier question. “Do you know him?” he asks, doubt in his voice.

“Yes, Dove, I do. At least, I knew him—in another life. He’ll know me.”

This brings a scowl to Dove’s weathered face. His mouth knots as if with a sudden, bad taste. “I prefer dealing with the young,” he finally says. “Their lives are simple and their secrets are trivial.”

“Can you help me?” she presses.

“I cannot. Not directly. But I know someone. He is an agent who knows all kinds of people. I will share your contact card. How long will you be here?”

“No longer than necessary.”

She thinks of Lincoln, home by now and surely occupied in setting ReqOps’ house in order. Right or wrong, he blames Shaw for Renata’s death and eventually he will come. She needs to find Shaw before then. It’s that simple.

She gives Dove the number of a burner phone she purchased at the local airport. She knows that he will call Lincoln, mention her visit, in case it matters. There’s nothing she can do about that.

They both stand. “I appreciate this courtesy,” she tells Dove. “I will not forget it.”

Several seconds pass as he studies her. It’s easy to see he would like to ask more questions, but he does not. “Be cautious,” he advises as he walks her to the door.

He means well, but it’s not advice she can follow. To do this, she’ll have to do it on Shaw Walker’s terms, if he’s willing to offer terms at all. She’s gambling, no question. Risking her life on a promise implied by the tattoo Miles saw. The Last Good Man.

She’s convinced Shaw did his best for Diego; he would have died for Diego.

Take me instead.

It’s Diego’s memory that links them. She’s gambling that will be enough to keep her alive.

It’s late afternoon when True strolls into the hotel lobby, her gaze taking in the décor—sleek and modern—and the clientele, the same. It’s a hotel intended for business travelers, not tourists. She evaluates the layout, picking out places a beetle could be concealed. It’s just habit. She already left one perched on a tiny ledge in the façade outside, positioned so that it can collect images of everyone entering the hotel or passing by the front doors. Her inventory of surveillance devices is limited. She won’t risk a second beetle in the lobby—especially given a real possibility that hotel security runs regular checks for unauthorized electronics.

She checks in, and then buys a change of clothes from the hotel store so she’ll have something to wear while she sends her other clothes to be cleaned. She settles on khaki slacks made for hiking and a gray athletic pullover.

The room is large and comfortable, furnished in the usual hotel style. Floor-to-ceiling windows look across low-rise shops and cafés to the glittering ocean.

She orders dinner in her room. A facial recognition program has sorted the images of hotel guests, staff, and visitors gathered by the beetle, appending names to many. True reviews them on her tablet but none seem meaningful. It’s comforting to remember that her own identity is protected. ReqOps paid for the privilege of anonymity—something she appreciates now more than ever.

After a shower, she settles in to wait.

She startles awake at the sound of an alarm, sure that she’s been asleep for hours. The curtains are still open. Light from a full moon and from the street below spills into the room, creating a shadowy twilight. She slides out of bed to crouch on the floor. A quick look around confirms she’s alone. The trilling continues. It’s not an alarm. It’s the ring tone of her burner phone.

She gets to her feet. Picks it up from the nightstand. The time flashes: 2300. Unknown number. It’s a new phone, of course. It doesn’t know anyone else’s number.

“Hello,” she says, believing the caller to be Dove’s mysterious agent. For a moment she wonders if this person will be a man or a woman. Then too many moments slip past, all of them silent.

Is no one there?

She has no evidence, but she believes someone is there, listening. Probably not the agent. Next best conclusion: Events have progressed faster than she anticipated. It’s Shaw Walker, reconnoitering, making a cautious approach. She speaks with that possibility in mind, with the hope that he’ll remember her voice. “This is True Brighton. We’ve met before. Diego Delgado is my son and I want to know what really happened.”

Silence.

She checks the phone’s display. The call has ended. Annoyed now, frustrated, she tosses it onto the bed and heads for the bathroom. But as soon as she comes out, she picks it up again. A text message has arrived from the same unknown number. GPS coordinates, along with a time, 2330. That’s twenty-six minutes from now. She checks a map. The coordinates correspond to a street corner several blocks from the hotel.

A rush of emotions dumps a smothering weight on her heart. There is a flash of peevishness at being called out in such a peremptory fashion. There is fear too: Anyone could have sent that message, and even if it is him? There is still fear. Strongest, though, is a sense of triumph. This is why she came.

She runs wet fingers through her hair and re-braids it. Gets dressed in her newly purchased clothes, puts her tablet and her reading glasses in a thigh pocket, works her hand into a snug data glove, and pulls on her jacket. Her new phone and her MARC visor go into the jacket’s front pockets; her daypack goes over her shoulder. The pack holds a first-aid kit and a remnant collection of robotics from the origami army—a sparrow, two beetles, two off-the-shelf tracking discs popularly known as “mother’s helpers,” and a small snake—all that’s left.

She is unarmed.

Guilt works on her as she waits for the elevator. Doubt… not over what she’s doing but doubt about her right to do it, to take this chance. She’s risking more than her own life. Alex is in her head, reminding her: We have two living children. Just because they aren’t kids anymore, that doesn’t mean they don’t need you.

But when the elevator doors open, she steps aboard. No one else there. She watches the numbers count down as she descends. She tries to imagine not going out tonight… and can’t.

She’s been drawn here by the gravity of Nungsan. No turning away now. No second chance. One way or another, she’ll see this through.

It’s cold outside, but she resists the urge to put her hands in her jacket pockets. Be ready for anything. Her pace is swift as she sets off up the block, senses alert. Listening, looking at everything around her. Feeling too visible in the bright moonlight.

At this hour traffic is light, and there aren’t many people about. Dark-haired boys lean out the windows of a passing sedan, yelling shrill invitations. She turns her head to watch them, hoping they will notice her age, hoping their friends will notice and give them hell for it.

When they’re gone, she takes out her MARC visor. It boots, linking to her anonymous profile. The optics kick in, brightening shadows and blunting the glare of headlights, making it easy to see details of the occasional passersby. A few European couples. They nod as they pass. A gray-haired businessman, identified by her visor as a city resident. He looks her over with a disapproving glower. Five dark-eyed young men, teenagers, joking with each other and smelling of cigarettes. They crowd around her, shoulders brushing, bumping. Playing at intimidation.

She murmurs in Arabic, “Tara aaraf ommak, enta we howa.” I know your mother, you and him.

They respond with shrill, nervous laughter and go their way.

Another man, ahead of her, walks in the same direction, but he disappears into a club, swallowed up by a burst of electronic music. No one else is near.

She watches the sidewalks, the street, the buildings, the night sky. Every few steps she glances back to check for interesting things that might be following behind, but she sees only a few stray cats. Nothing suspicious, nothing threatening, until the traffic lulls. Then she hears a faint hum from overhead—like a wet electrical line or a stealthy surveillance drone.

A glance up confirms there are no electrical lines. This is a new neighborhood. Utilities are underground.

She activates one of the MARC’s search programs, designed to inventory artificial objects in the sky—both those that self-identify with transponder signals, and those that don’t. Stealth objects are found by analyzing video from the MARC’s cams. She looks up, turning in a slow circle to scan the entire arc of sky visible between the eclipsing bulk of the buildings. The program can visually distinguish objects presenting at least thirty seconds of arc—but that’s in clear air. There’s a haze of dust over the city tonight. Still, the MARC picks out some low-flying drones, listing them in her visual field:

The two unidentified Sibolts concern her. They’re quiet, off-the-shelf surveillance devices, half a meter in diameter, capable of autonomous navigation, and cheap enough that almost any urban sky survey will turn up at least one. Easy to use, too. Register a target and they’ll follow it until their power reserves drain to the red line and they have to return to their charging station.

Just because there are two in the sky, it doesn’t mean they’re interested in her. But they might be.

She reaches the end of the block and turns onto the cross street. When there’s a break in traffic she trots across to the opposite curb, turns the next corner, and scans the sky again. One Sibolt is still in sight. She cuts beneath a canopy sheltering the front of a closed bakery and listens. It’s a quiet street. This time she’s sure she can hear the whispery hum of stealth propellers.

Who? she wonders.

A Sibolt is such a basic tool she can’t believe one was fielded by the same crew who flew the biomimetic hawk in the Philippines. She doubts it belongs to Shaw either. A man who can command Arkinsons would surely field more sophisticated surveillance. Another possibility occurs to her: Maybe Lincoln is behind it. Maybe Dove contacted him, told him about her visit. Or maybe he just worked out where she’d gone and hired a local company to monitor her movements.

The thought angers her. Lincoln is a friend, one she respects, but in the matter of Shaw Walker their goals are not the same. That’s why she’s here by herself—and she is not going to tolerate interference.

Using her phone, she dictates a text: “I’m being watched. Aerial surveillance. A Sibolt. If it’s not yours, be cautious.”

She waits under the canopy for another minute but gets no answer. Her gaze shifts to the lower right, cueing the time display on her visor to brighten. 2328. She has two minutes to reach the rendezvous point.

She walks swiftly, and soon she can see the corner where she has been instructed to wait. The surrounding buildings are four and five story apartments, shops and a restaurant at street level. The restaurant is still open. Parked cars line the curbs. Traffic is sparse. She sees no other pedestrians, no one waiting at the corner. It’s possible someone is waiting inside one of the parked cars. The idea disturbs her. It makes the hair on her neck stand up. She eyes each car as she passes, determined not to be taken by surprise. But no one’s there.

She reaches the corner, looks up and down the cross street. Half a block away, two young men smoking outside a club. No one else in sight. No one gets out of the vehicles. There’s a corner café—closed now—with large glass windows. She retreats into the shadow of its canopy, a position that lets her watch both streets.

A few cars pass, their headlight beams sliding over her. An expensive sedan slows almost to a stop as the driver takes a look. She lets her MARC record an image of his face and of his car, uploading it to a secure folder—a resource that will be emailed to both Alex and Lincoln should she disappear.

A fierce faint buzz from overhead seizes her attention. She looks up in time to see the golden burst of a small explosion no more than ten meters above the building diagonally across the intersection. The sound is like a firecracker. She drops into a crouch as the concussion echoes back and forth between the buildings. The luxury sedan accelerates hard and disappears. True remains down, unsure what happened until her visor inventories the sky again.

The Sibolt is gone.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, venting tension. He took out the Sibolt. He must have had some kind of kamikaze up there and he took out the Sibolt.

The realization brings with it a crazy kind of relief, because he could have targeted her with the kamikaze if he wanted to. She knows now that’s not his purpose.

She checks the time. The digital display brightens under her gaze. 2329 shifts to 2330.

Cautiously, she stands up. A van rolls past, followed by a scooter with a helmeted rider. An old beat-up SUV with tinted windows turns into sight a block away. It advances toward her at a moderate pace, stopping briefly on the other side of the intersection. Instinct tells her this is it. Sweat prickles under her arms. Her heart booms. When the SUV rolls forward again, she moves out into the street to meet it.

She approaches from the passenger side. As she does, the window slides down. She is ready to drop, or to turn and run, but she tries not to show it as she peers inside.

Dim light cast by a dash video screen illuminates the driver. He’s dressed like a civilian, khaki trousers and a darker, long-sleeved pullover. His large hands are on the steering wheel but his left hand—the hand Miles described as crippled—holds the wheel in a distorted grip. It’s his index and little finger that curl to meet his thumb. The two middle fingers don’t help out, standing off instead, stiffly curved.

He wears a data glove on his right hand, and on his right wrist, a bracelet that looks like something a child would wear. It’s made of clear, colorless, flat plastic links with embedded wiring. A tracking device? Maybe.

His face is weathered, his eyebrows thinner than she remembers, his hair darker but maybe that’s just the light. His hair has been buzz-cut, but it could use another trim. So could his beard.

He’s wearing an augmented reality visor—not a MARC, some other brand. He’s not looking at her but she can see through the screen to his spooky, pale eyes. Their focus shifts, taking in the street, and maybe the rearview mirror, or the data streamed on his display. He’s watchful, on guard. She notes the tension in the set of his mouth and wonders if he’s expecting an assault.

But is it him? It’s been so long, she’s not sure. “You got this right?” she asks him, her voice soft but urgent.

A cold smile crooks his lips. He still doesn’t look at her. “Get in, True, if you want this to happen.”

Goddamn, she thinks. It’s as if a ghost has spoken. Goosebumps rise on her arms, on her neck, at that rough, raspy voice. She remembers that voice more clearly than she remembers his face. She glances into the backseat. As best she can see, it’s empty. She opens the door and gets in, settling her daypack into her lap.

He drives. The window closes and cool air from the vents blows against her flushed cheeks. The cabin smells of sweat, dust, and a faint lingering odor of cigarette smoke. She twists around to get a better look at the backseat. No one’s there. No one’s on the road behind them. Still, she doesn’t believe he’s alone.

Motion draws her gaze to his bracelet. It’s stirring. It’s no longer a closed circle. Instead it’s crawling around his wrist like an agitated centipede. She can see mandibles. He ignores it and asks her, “You got a tracking signal?”

“Nothing running.”

“You recording?”

“No. I had a sky survey going but that’s done now.”

The centipede settles down, transforming back into a bracelet. He says, “I’d feel better if you put the visor away.”

“Not a problem.” She shoves her pack to the floor beside her feet, where there’s a rubber mat filthy with grit and pale dust. She takes off her MARC, making a show of powering it down, folding it, sliding it into her jacket pocket. “What the hell is that thing on your wrist?”

“Personal defense,” he says as he turns onto a different street. “It’s got biomarkers on you now, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Good to know.”

He drives sedately but without hesitation, familiar with where he is and where he’s going. She notes the streets and passing buildings, trying to assemble a map of their route in her mind.

“Other devices?” he asks her.

“Sure.”

“Power them down. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but you never know who’s hacked in.”

It’s a reasonable precaution. She gets out her phone and her tablet, and shuts them off. The origami army is already dormant, so she leaves those devices untouched in her pack. “You worried about being identified?” she asks.

He drawls, “No, I’ve got no reason to worry. This is my town. One of ’em. I’m just a tourist who forgot to go home. An expatriate.”

“Jon Helm is a tourist?”

“Yeah.”

“I heard he’s a notorious mercenary, head of a black-hat PMC.”

His mouth quirks. The motion highlights a scar on his lip, visible even in the low light from the dash. Miles mentioned that scar. Shaw says, “It’s a common name.”

She considers this, wondering how many versions of Jon Helm he controls. Each one no doubt supplied with a flawless history, full documentation, biometric confirmation. She wonders if someone in the American intelligence community helped him set it all up, or if he bought versions of the name on the black market.

“I thought it would take longer to find you,” she says. “Were you already here in Rabat?”

“No. I wasn’t here.”

She nods. Of course he wouldn’t keep his operation here. He’s probably based on the other side of the Atlas Mountains, in ungoverned territory. Did he come alone? Unlikely. Somewhere not far off there must be at least a few Variant Forces soldiers, assigned to guard his flanks. He implies as much when he tells her, “I’ve had assets out, looking for your crew.” There is uncertainty in his voice. Maybe she’s bait in a trap? He isn’t sure yet.

She decides to play on his doubt. “You didn’t find my people, did you?”

His right hand tightens on the wheel. “No.”

“That’s because I’m alone.”

Again that tense quirk of his lips, scar flashing white. “That’s hardcore, True.”

“Spur-of-the-moment resolve,” she admits, certain now that he has his own crew nearby, watching the approaches.

“You rogue, then?” he asks. “Not Lincoln’s girl anymore?”

“For now.”

“How does he feel about that?”

“I don’t know. I ghosted.”

A low whistle of surprise. “He won’t like that.”

She doesn’t need Shaw to tell her that. The knot in her gut is doing the job nicely, thank you. “I did what I had to do.”

“That’s what it comes down to,” he agrees. He asks, “You think it was Lincoln who commissioned that Sibolt to follow you?”

She’s suspicious but doesn’t want to admit it. “I don’t know. Maybe it was Dove. Maybe he got curious.”

“No. Dove’s been warned to be discreet.”

She touches the phone in her pocket. She assumed Dove would report her visit to Lincoln—but maybe that didn’t happen and she really is on her own, with no chance of backup at all.

You chose it, she reminds herself.

But she’s also reminded of Shaw’s associates, and it comes to her that Hussam’s little brother, Rihab, might want to know about a Requisite Operations soldier gone astray. Rihab was supposed to be the filmmaker behind Hussam’s execution videos.

Shaw senses something. A change in her breathing maybe, or the sudden fixed focus of her gaze. Or her hand on the door latch. “Something I need to know about?” he asks.

“No.” In her mind she reviews the moves she’d have to make to open the door, to roll out into the street, even as she turns her head to meet his gaze. “It’s something I need to know. Is Rihab here somewhere, with you?”

“Late to be asking that question.”

“I didn’t get to ask a lot of questions.”

“Yeah, you took a hell of a chance, that’s for sure.” He adds, “Rihab doesn’t know about you, and I sure as fuck am not going to tell him. He knows better than to show up here.”

“He’s not your client?”

“No. He’d rather kill me than pay me money. Revenge for his beloved brother, even though the prick hates Hussam almost as much as I do.”

“Hussam said you worked for him.”

“I took his money. I take anyone’s money.” His voice grows harsh. “I help them make money. Because what fascinates me, True, are the levels of depravity people are willing to engage in to earn a few dollars. No sense of perspective. Full throttle, over the cliff.”

Her cheeks heat up in the wake of this outburst. Her mouth is dry with tension.

He adds, “I saw your crew got busted in the PI.”

She breathes deeply, striving for calm. He must have seen a news report. He must have a digital assistant searching for mentions of ReqOps, of Lincoln… and of her? “A misunderstanding,” she tells him softly.

“You found an ex-priest tortured by Saomong.”

“Yes.” Her heart races. She fears for Daniel. “He’s no harm to you.”

“He told you what happened?”

“Some of it.”

“Tough bastard,” Shaw says with grudging admiration. “Thought sure he wouldn’t live out that day.”

Her voice is soft, soothing, almost submissive when she says, “You weren’t all that surprised to get my message.”

“No, I was. Not what I was expecting. But I’m not surprised someone’s following you. You got any other guesses about the Sibolts?”

She considers mentioning the biomimetic hawk in the Philippines but rejects the idea, not wanting to feed his suspicions. “No. No other guesses.”

A pause. She turns in her seat, looking back, but the street behind is dark.

“You expecting someone, True?”

She settles back in her seat. “I think we’re both trying to understand the terrain, the potential threats.”

“Yeah, that’s always the trick.”

“You’re part of the terrain.” Her voice is cautious, feeling her way. “You’ve got people out there covering you, guarding your flanks. Don’t you? Variant Forces soldiers.”

A grunt of amusement or annoyance. She can’t tell. He hesitates as if weighing his words. Then tells her, “It’s a modern company. Relies heavily on automation.”

So maybe they are alone?

“The State Department described Variant Forces as a syndicate of independent operators.” She looks at him sideways. “Financed and organized by you?”

“You want to know how to set up a pirate PMC, True? I’ll tell you the secret. Don’t trust anyone. And make sure you hold all the keys.”

She thinks about this. Considers the little she knows of his operation. Then speculates: “The first key, that’s cash. You control it and distribute it generously. That lets you sit at the center of an intelligence network, fed by contractors. That’s how we do it, anyway. Human intelligence. Machine surveillance. Here, in your theater of operations, you know everybody who’s in the business, either directly or through intermediaries. They know you. Or they know your reputation. You’re reliable. Again, that’s how we do it. But our IT is in-house. I’m going to guess yours is freelance. Your programmers are probably from all over the world. No personal interest, paid well. Even so, you run an AI to check their code, confirm its security. Ensure you’ve got password overrides or backdoors on all the software. That how it works?”

The knuckles on his right hand whiten as he holds the wheel. “You left out one thing.”

“No qualms,” she says quietly. “But you already told me that.”

They enter a warehouse district. Lights are on in a few buildings, but most are dark. Shaw weaves through the streets. Ahead of them, a panel door at the front of a tall warehouse begins to open. Lights come on inside, spilling out to paint the street. Shaw drives in, parking on a concrete pad just large enough for two vans. It’s a loading space, surrounded by modular walls that hide the bulk of the warehouse’s interior. Only a small glass-walled office is visible.

“Anyone here?” True asks.

“Still scoping the terrain?”

“Yes.”

“No one’s here. The way I see it, this is between you and me. No one else. Right?”

“Yes.”

The panel door rattles shut behind them. He opens his door, admitting a familiar noise: the soft, rhythmic, integrated hum of precision machinery driven by quiet electric motors. She opens her own door, sniffs at air that is cool and a little dusty. Not air conditioned and even so, there’s no scent of industrial chemicals or exhaust. “Printer factory?” she asks.

“That’s what most of these warehouses are.”

She studies him across the hood of the SUV, under the daylight glow of ceiling lights. He’s six-two, maybe six-three. Lean to the point of being underweight. His cheeks are gaunt, his dark blond hair shot through with gray and starting to thin. If he’s carrying a weapon, she can’t see it… except of course the centipede bracelet, its mandible presently hidden. “Is this place secure?” she asks him.

“Good enough.”

“You aren’t worried we’ll be followed here?”

He studies her in turn through the gleaming transparent screen of his AR visor. A wary gaze, but coolly rational. “I’m expecting it. I like to know who my enemies are.”

“Then you do have someone watching over us?”

“Not someone.”

She recalls his description of Variant Forces as a modern company relying on automation. “Autonomous surveillance, sure. But you’ve got someone in the control room?”

“Autonomous response, too. You sound worried, True.”

Of course she’s worried. She’s remembering the Sibolt, and she thinks of Renata, too. “You’re saying you trust your mechs with a lethal response?”

“No qualms,” he reminds her.

Lincoln believes Shaw to be behind the car bomb at ReqOps headquarters. True would like to hear Shaw deny it—but does it matter?

Not tonight, she decides. She is the first to look away, reminding herself she’s not here to judge his guilt or innocence. But he’s good at reading people. She knows that when he asks, “Are you my enemy, True?”

She answers honestly, “Maybe later. Not tonight.”

“Good. I need a drink. Come on.”

A door opens as if in response to his gaze. The whispering of electronic machinery jumps in volume.

She follows him onto a factory floor that is only a little larger than a backyard swimming pool. Four midsize factory printers hum pleasantly, but she can’t see what they’re producing because their work stages are shielded—which means it’s hot work, involving lasers. At the back of the factory floor, a stairway takes them to a loft that must have been intended as an office, but it’s set up as a Spartan apartment with a cot, a couple of folding chairs, a small refrigerator, a few glasses, and a bottle of vodka, barely touched. “You’re not here much,” she says.

“No.” He pours a shot. Gives her an inquiring look. “One for you?”

She shakes her head. Moves to the window to look out over the factory floor. A trolley is in the aisle. With precise movements of its robotic arms, it extracts a product from one of the printers: the narrow, matte-gray barrel of a rifle.

Where to start? Maybe he’s wondering the same thing. He moves up beside her, making no noise so that she startles at his unexpected proximity. She smells the vodka, feels the heat of his skin, senses his gravity. Instinct warns her to retreat. But she ignores instinct’s good advice.

Moving slowly, deliberately, hoping not to startle either him or the centipede bracelet into a defensive reaction, she turns and touches the back of his left hand, his scarred hand—not the hand with the centipede.

He doesn’t like it. He pulls away but she grasps his wrist—her grip firm, insistent—while she watches his face, watches the corded muscles of his neck, ready to dodge a blow if it comes to that, although she’s not sure she could move fast enough. His skin is warm, slightly damp beneath coarse hair.

She feels him give in, the tension in his arm easing just a little. She releases a breath she wasn’t aware of holding and turns his arm over, pushes his sleeve up. He growls, “Who the fuck told you?”

There on his forearm is the tattoo exactly as Miles described it: the cross, the flames, the banner inscribed with her son’s name and the epithet The Last Good Man. In a husky voice she says, “Tell me a story, Shaw Walker. The story of what really happened in that Burmese forest. All these years, I thought it was just a mission gone bad. But it was worse than that.” She looks up again, her gaze meeting his through the screen of his AR visor. “Wasn’t it?”

“Shit,” he whispers. Gently, he reclaims his arm, moves away. She steps back too, leans against the glass, crosses her arms. Waiting.

He retreats into a corner at the opposite end of the window. “Short version,” he says, pulling his sleeve back down. “We were caught by surprise and we got hammered. When we tried to retreat, we were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and they killed us.”

A perfect summary of what True has been told but she knows there’s more. “The plot is in the details.”

He looks out across the factory floor. “You ever go there?” he asks. “After?”

“No.”

His chest rises and falls in a long sigh. “We were left there to die. That’s the first truth you need to know.”

“I’ve learned that much already.”

He looks surprised at these words, almost grateful… as if he had not expected her to believe it.

“Tell me the rest,” she urges. “Tell me what really happened. Tell me why Diego had to die.”